Hell Hounds R Us
by mmm1912titanic
Summary: What's a guy to do when everyone he knows thinks he's possessed? Try and prove he's not, of course. Though the hellhound following him around might make that a bit difficult...
1. Chapter 1

Dean Winchester wasn't a crybaby. He'd had more broken bones than he could count, more stitches than a puppet doll, and more bruises, scrapes, and grazes than an entire team of pro-footballers. But hearing his baby brother call him a demon and try to gut him with his own knife—that, that hurt a lot.

Dean scrambles back, the pain across his abdomen barely registering. Sam's screaming, his face red, his eyes panicked, but Dean can't hear the words over the ringing in his ears. His vision swims, the blow Sam dealt to his head doing more damage than Dean's sure he can deal with.

"Sam," he tries. "Stop."

But if Sam hears he gives no sign. His attack becomes frantic, every block Dean makes seeming to fuel something inside Sam, some fire that Dean wishes he could tap into because he's fading fast. Their last hunt had been no picnic. Nor had the two months of almost nonstop run ins with demons and angels alike, all eager to get a piece of the Winchester brothers.

The next hit comes in under Dean's flagging guard, catching him directly on the chin. Stars—literal ones Dean's pretty sure—explode before his eyes and then there's nothing. He comes to minutes, maybe hours later, hogtied in the back of the Impala. He can tell that's where he is just by the smell. He doesn't even have to hear the familiar rumble of the engine to know he's in his baby. And Sammy is driving. Fast if the constant rocking is any indicator.

Dean's head is killing him and the wound across his stomach complains as a bump in the road rocks him further onto his stomach. Sam's blindfolded and gagged him with something that smells like gun oil and metal, a usually comforting aroma, but in this context they make Dean feel nauseous and sick. How did they come to this? He tries to pinpoint what set Sam off but can't, the ache in his head a steady drumbeat that makes thinking all but impossible.

Finally he decides to quit trying, figures Sam will clue him in when they get to wherever they're going, and lets the purr of the engine lull him back to sleep.

SPNSPNSPN

The sound of the engine cutting off doesn't wake him, nor does the creak of the driver side door opening and slamming shut. It's not until Sam drags him out of the Impala by hooking his arms under Dean's that he comes to.

Boots drag against gravel that pings away as Dean tries to get his legs under him. The blindfold makes it feel like the ground is pitching and yawing, and his knees buckle at some point, the only thing keeping him upright Sam's firm hold.

_Sam,_ he moans against the gag, involuntary tears filling his eyes. _Stop_, he tries, but the words are garbled and make no sense and Sam doesn't stop, doesn't say anything just drags Dean up a short flight of steps. They pause there and Dean wonders what's going to happen next, where Sam's brought him. He doesn't have to wait long to find out.

Door hinges squeal and a very familiar voice says, "Bring him in, I've got the trap all set up."

_Bobby,_ Dean thinks, the word followed quickly by the thought, _Trap? What trap?_

Sam hauls him across a space that seems endless, but really only takes five strides to cross and then Dean's being dumped into a chair. His brain feels like it's going to slide out of his ears if he doesn't lay down soon, head too heavy for his tired neck to support. He sags, barely aware of the ropes being wound around his torso, wrists, and ankles, until the blindfold is ripped away, along with the gag.

They're at Bobby's, which shouldn't come as a surprise, but somehow does. He gives Bobby a dopy smile and leans forward. "Bobby, man," he says, the words slurring into one as they slide out of his mouth. "What, what are you doing here? Are we having a party?"

This seems like a completely reasonable assumption to Dean. He hasn't felt this out of it since the great hangover of '02 and the last few hours have already faded into a blurry haze that he's not sure even occurred.

The incredulous look Bobby shoots Sam says something different. "Jesus, boy, what'd you do to him? I thought you said you just knocked him out, not that you sent him into orbit."

Sam's lips tighten and Dean giggles. Giggles. Sam's bitch face is out in force tonight, which Dean thinks is hilarious being that he's the one tied to the chair.

"Sam," he tries to say but the word dips and stops halfway through when Dean realizes that he's been tied down. He eyes the ropes in surprise, wondering where they came from and experimentally tests the ones around his wrists. They dig into him and the added pain clears Dean's muddled head enough for him to squint up at Sam. "Did you, did you tie me up, Sammy? What the hell?"

He half expects Sam to look sheepish, to apologize and untie him. But instead, Sam lunges forward, forcing Dean back as Sam braces both hands against the chair arms. "You are _not _my brother, you demonic son of a bitch; you do not get to call me Sammy."

Spittle hits Dean's cheek and he blinks at Sam. "I'm not?"

Sam's bitch face gets even bitcher, but before he can say another word Bobby grabs him and pulls him away. An angry discussion goes on just out of Dean's earshot, but he can tell from the numerous angry glances that they're talking about him.

_What did I do?_ Dean things, but the thought floats away as his attention is caught by something in the doorway. It's a dog. At least Dean's pretty sure it is, though his blurry vision gives the thing the appearance of being underwater.

"Doggy," Dean slurs, flapping a hand at it. "Sammy, there's a doggy here." Sam doesn't hear, never stops arguing with Bobby, but the dog-shape moves, toenails clicking against the hardwood until it butts its head against Dean's leg. It whines and licks at him, and Dean smiles, absurdly happy that at least one person in the house seems to like him.

There's another whine and the dog puts its head in Dean's lap. Its head is heavy and its breath warm as it pants. Dean has no idea where the dog came from and is pretty sure Bobby's dog Rumsfeld is dead. But he can't form the coherent thought necessary to question it. Instead, he strains a bit against the ropes and runs his fingers through the dog's thick black fur.

Dean's aware of the talking between Sam and Bobby breaking off more by the fact that the dog suddenly moves away from him and growls than anything else.

"What the," says Bobby, his voice stunned and strained all at the same time.

Dean cracks open heavy eyelids. Bobby and Sam stand at the edge of the Devil's trap inscribed on the floor—and Dean wonders how he didn't notice that was where he was—and stare at the dog who suddenly seems a lot larger and more threatening than he did before.

Now that Dean's focusing, he sees that calling this thing a dog might have been a bit misguided. The thing's taller than Dean is sitting down and its legs look like miniature tree trunks. Bobby has his shotgun trained on the thing and Sam's pulled Dean's knife from somewhere. Dean sees its still red with blood—his blood, he remembers after a strained second. If his head didn't hurt so much he'd cuss Sam out for that. But the dog-thing is growling louder now and Bobby cocks his shotgun, the sound shockingly loud in the enclosed space.

The noise clears Dean's head, memory slotting into place like a Tetris puzzle. He remembers coming back to the hotel room with dinner, remembers tossing Sam the bag and settling on his bed with the book he picked up from the used bookstore that afternoon while he was waiting for Sam. Remembers Sam jokingly asking him if he's possessed and saying Cristo. Remembers the stunned look on Sam's face after he says it and the fight that ensued. He still has no clue what he did to make Sammy think he was possessed, but now he's tied up in the middle of a devil's trap with what looks like a real live hellhound standing between him and his brother and surrogate father.

"Son of a—" Dean swears. His throat is dry, the words barely audible. He clears it. "Hey," he yells at the dog, sending sparks of pain through his head. "Back off, Cujo."

No one is more surprised than Dean when the dog does exactly that, turning to Dean with a whine that sounds just like any dog being reprimanded by its master. Red eyes blink sorrowfully at Dean and the hellhound pads back, shrinking until he's just a large black dog. It rests its head in Dean's lap.

He stares down at it, unsure what to say. He laughs and looks up at Sam and Bobby with a grin. "Hell, it would have been neat if I'd known that trick before."

Sam and Booby don't smile back. All the color has washed clean out of Bobby's face and Sam looks like he's going to be sick. For some reason that angers Dean.

A lot.

"What?" Dean demands. "You think that this is, what? Proof that I'm really a demon? I'm not possessed, Sam!"

Sam's face twists. "Then why did your eyes turn black when I said Cristo? There!" Sam points. "They did it again!"

"They did not," Dean snaps, but Bobby shakes his head.

"No use lyin', you demonic piece o' slime I saw it too. Here." He holds the shotgun out to Sam who takes it, sliding the knife away. I'll go get the exorcism."

Cujo stiffens, but Dean makes a warning sound in the back of his throat without thinking about it and the dog immediately relaxes.

If Dean didn't have bigger things to worry about, the hellhound's easy acceptance of all Dean says to it would be wigging him out, but the cold, flat look in Sam's eyes, scares him more than a dozen hellhounds. He hasn't seen that look since before they'd gotten Sam his soul back and Dean hopes that whoever's playing this elaborate trick on them isn't doing it to force Sam's soul away again. Dean's not sure he can take another round of Soulless Sam. The first round nearly killed him.

His subconscious snorts at that. _The Souled version might kill you trying to save you._

Dean tells his subconscious to shut up and turns his attention back to his brother. "Sam, I don't know what you're seeing or why this dog is here, but there's got to be an explanation."

"There is," says Sam and doesn't say another word, no matter what Dean says.

Dean's pretty angry by the time Bobby comes back, arms full of who the hell knows what since all you need for an exorcism is the words.

Bobby places the bowl of stuff on a nearby pile of books and pulls a small notebook from his pocket. He frowns at Dean from underneath his dirty ball cap. Dean wonders idly if Bobby's ever washed the thing and the hellhound makes a funny noise, almost like a snort.

Bobby and Sam glare at the hound, who just calmly licks his chops before settling down at Dean's feet. Its body is furnace hot against Dean's legs and the last of the cobwebs clear as Bobby begins to chant.

It's long—longer than a regular exorcism and by the time Bobby's done, Dean's annoyed. Really freaking annoyed. "You done now?" he asks them. "I don't know what all that mumbo-jumbo crap was that you just spouted, but it obviously didn't work so let me go."

"Let you go?" Sam says the words like Dean's five and just asked him if he could order a hooker to come to his birthday party. "I'm not letting you go anywhere until you get out of my brother!"

"Easy, Sam," says Bobby, hand fisting around Sam's jacket, holding him back. Bobby looks nearly as angry as Sam, but at least the wheels are turning in his head. Not like in Sam's; Dean can see that anger has taken his brother well past the point of rational thought and if it wasn't for Bobby Dean would be picking his teeth up off the floor.

Sam's eyes never leave Dean, but he backs off a bit, body never relaxing. The hellhound watches him with mild interest before lowering his head dismissively. Dean's impressed. There's a burning desire in Dean to lean over and scratch the hellhound under the chin, but instead he leans back as far as he can and raises an eyebrow at his brother.

"Okay, Sammy, have it your way. Try another exorcism. It won't work—none of them will—because I'm not possessed!"

The hellhound barks his agreement, giving Sam and Bobby a look that would have had lesser men running for the door.

Instead Bobby picks up the bowl and takes what looks like a jar of blood from it. He hands that to Sam, removes a bundle of incense and a pack of matches, and sets the bowl back down.

"What are you going to do with that? Make me drink it?" Dean asks bitterly.

"No, you dumbass," says Bobby. "This is lambs blood. We're gonna use it to cast your sorry butt back into the fryer."

"And if that doesn't work? Will you believe I'm not possessed then?"

Bobby and Sam hesitate and share a glance that Dean doesn't like. It's not a look that says they're prepared to give up that easy.

Nor is the bottle of holy water, Sam whips out of his pocket and throws at the hellhound. The bottle shatters against the creatures torso and it scrambles back, nearly knocking Dean and his chair over in its mad scramble for the door, smoke billowing from it like grease on a hot griddle. It passes through the Demon's Trap like it's not even there and out the back door.

Dean gapes at Sam. "What the hell?"

Sam doesn't answer, just nods to Bobby who lights the incense and starts circling Dean and chanting.

The words aren't anything Dean's ever heard before, which he thinks is strange because over the last six years—ever since he learned that demons were a much bigger threat than previously thought—Dean's become sort of an expert in exorcisms. Whatever this is, it isn't in Latin like the previous one. Or German or Spanish or French; languages that Dean's pretty sure he'd at least be able to recognize. Instead Bobby sounds like his mouth is full of marbles and he's spitting the words out around them.

Dean doesn't feel anything happen as the chanting continues, and he's so focused on Bobby, that the cold slide of a finger across his cheek catches him by surprise. He jerks back, nearly getting Sam's finger in his eye as Sam continues over his nose and down his other cheek, ringing Dean's eyes.

"What the hell, Sam!" Dean yells just as hands clamp down on either side of his head from behind.

Bobby's shouting now, the words like daggers scraping along Dean's nerves. Dean starts yelling and cussing just as Sam places five bloody fingers against Dean's forehead and joins Bobby, his deep voice a harsh counterpoint to Bobby's.

Sam's touch feels like someone setting off a grenade behind Dean's eyes. Pain engulfs Dean's head and the world splinters and spins away leaving Dean plummeting into a void.

When the pieces come back, Dean's panting like he's run a marathon. Everything tastes and smells like the bloody vomit Dean can feel dribbling between his lips. Fogged eyes regard the bloody mess in his lap with only mild curiosity.

D

ean's pretty sure if he moves his head will simply crack open like an egg. It's quiet. Too quiet, he thinks, though he can't think why that might be.

Hadn't…hadn't someone been here…before…

The thought derails. _Before_ is a jumbled mess, images and sounds pasted together into a strange collage. Some he vaguely remembers, but the majority show him strange things. Things he's pretty sure he's never seen or heard before: the chitter of dolphins as they swim through a bright blue sea; battles waged on horseback; screaming men dying in bloody trenches; beings made of light with giant wings, running across a boiling landscape, their laughter booming through the air.

Dean shudders, pulling away from them. Something is…wrong with those images. He senses the danger they pose and weakly shoves them away, focusing on the images that don't hurt so much to look at. He runs his tongue around his mouth and spits out the vomit.

Someone moans and Dean's head snaps up. It's a bad move, causing sparklers to ignite in front of Dean's eyes. He blinks dazedly to clear them and the room comes into focus in fits and starts. To say it's been destroyed is putting it mildly. The careful mounds of books has toppled, creating snowdrifts of pages, most of which have come clear of their bindings. The furniture's been tossed about and anything glass has shattered.

The moan comes again and finally Dean's brain reengages.

_Sammy,_ he thinks with rising panic. _Sammy was here. And Bobby._

It takes an age, but he finally manages to gather enough air for a raspy, "Sam? Sammy, where are you?"

There's another moan and then a harsh bark that has Dean swiveling in the other direction. It's the hellhound. Patches of its fur are missing, but otherwise it looks okay and Dean feels an unexplained relief.

"Cujo," he calls to it hoarsely, smiling when the hellhound comes right to him and licks his face.

The taste of lambs' blood has the creature drawing back with a whine just as part of the snowdrift of books shifts and a boot kicks out.

"Sam," Dean says, more out of hope than certainty. "Cujo, go check on him." The hellhound gives Dean an odd look, but barks and trots on over. Cujo sniffs at the boot for a moment and then daintily bites down on the tip and pulls. The person attached to the boot slides free and Dean sees to his relief that it is indeed Sammy.

He seems dazed and no amount of weak calling from Dean appears to reach him. Another moan sounds from across the room and then Dean hears Bobby's voice let out a vicious sounding string of curses.

Cujo lets out a loud bark at the sound and the curses break off. Dean's neck is getting too heavy to support his head and he lets it drop to his chest, telling Cujo to stay. The dog's not happy about it, but it does as its master commands and sits by Dean's side, one paw resting on top of Dean's forearm as if to give him comfort.

It strangely does and Dean's almost forgotten about Bobby entirely when boots shuffle into his line of sight and nudge his ankle gently.

"Dean?" Bobby sounds scared and Dean tries to raise his head, tries to reassure him, but he's just too damn tired to give anything more than a weak grunt. A too warm hand presses into his throat and Dean's head falls back at the pressure. "Christo," Bobby says when his eyes meet Dean's.

"Wha?" says Dean, squinting at Bobby. He tries to hold onto the thread of his thoughts, but the reason for Bobby to say that to him slips through his fingers.

Bobby though lets out a quiet, "Thank God," and begins whispering assurances as he cuts at the ropes binding Dean to the chair. Dean lets the words wash over him, unable to focus for more than a second at a time.

He's barely aware of another voice groaning and saying, "Bobby? Did it work?"

"Yeah," says Bobby. "A little too well I think. Rippin' that thing out'a your brother damn near killed him and us both."

Feet scrambled on hardwood and then another set of hands were on him, titling his head back.

"Oh God," says the blurry figure. "Dean, hey, Dean can you hear me?"

_No need to yell, Sammy_, Dean tries to say, but his tongue is too big for him mouth and instead of speaking Dean's eyes roll back in his skull and he lets the pain take him under.


	2. Chapter 2

Guilt swamps Sam as his brothers green eyes roll back in his skull and his body goes limp. The damn hellhound starts barking frantically, eyes slowly kindling and turning red as Bobby finishes untying Dean's legs and they pick him up to the carry him to the couch in the next room.

It's unnerving how protective of his brother the thing still is, but Bobby says the last exorcism had worked, meaning that this is his brother. His brother's nearly dead body that Sam was carting like a side of beef.

_Dean will understand_, he tells himself as they lay Dean down. _After all he forgave you after you nearly killed him when you were possessed. _

_Yeah, and now that he's been possessed its still you nearly killing him, not the other way around_.

The hellhound gives an irritated huff, and head butts Sam out of the way so the hound can jump up on the couch and lie besides Dean. It whines and licks at his arm, whining again when Dean doesn't so much as twitch.

It shoots Sam and Bobby a baleful glare before lying its massive head down on Dean's chest.

"Are you sure he's not possessed anymore?" Sam asks Bobby quietly.

"Hell, Sam, I don't know. He didn't respond when I said Christo and the holy water I splashed on him didn't do a thing. That and that little hurricane we had would lead me to say yeah, he ain't possessed anymore."

"Ease up on the sarcasm okay? If the demon's gone, why's the hellhound still here?"

Sam's pretty sure the hellhound rolls its eyes when Bobby can't come up with a good answer.

Nervously Sam chews on his lip and studies Dean. His face is too pale, making the blood stand out sharply against his lips. Sam's gut flips at the sight and he hurries to get a washcloth, the idea of staying with his brother a second longer impossible until he washes away any and all evidence of the demon.

The hellhound lets Sam wash off Dean's face and chest, and check for vitals, but anything else gets a wary little snarl. Dean doesn't appear to be in any danger from the dog however—and squirting it with holy water gets Sam clawed for his troubles—so they leave the hellhound where it is and wait for Dean to wake up while the attempt to put Bobby's house back together.

It takes then hours before they've even put a dent in it and they're both cross eyed and cranky before it's done. They fall into bed having finally given up on Dean waking anytime soon, and awake four hours later to the sound of excited barking and tired groaning from the living room.

Sam falls out of bed and flies into the living room, gun drawn—only to find his brother sitting up, feet on the floor, and the hellhound prancing about him like an excited puppy, stopping every few seconds to lick a new part of his brother.

"Get off me," says Dean with a tired, but good-natured groan, and it's his brother's green eyes that look up at Sam and give him a crooked smile.

"Hey, Sammy," says Dean. "Did you meet Cujo here? I didn't know Bobby'd gotten a new dog."

"He didn't," says Sam, quickly stowing the gun. Miraculously, Dean doesn't seem to notice, his focus on the dog licking his face.

"Then whose is it?" Dean says in that high-pitched voice people reserve for infants and animals.

The hellhound barks again and shoots Sam a look that Sam swears is a warning as Bobby steps through the door, eyes darting between the three occupants before settling on Dean.

"How you feeling, boy?" he asks instead of answering Dean's question.

The sound of Bobby's voice draws Dean's attention away from the hellhound. To Sam Dean looks awful, face too pale, dark circles like accusations stamped around his eyes. But Dean just shrugs and yawns, jaw clicking.

"Tired," he says. He squints up at Sam. "When did we get here anyway? I don't remember leaving the ho—"

The word breaks off part way, Dean's eyes widening. The hellhound whines as Dean rockets to his feet. "You thought I was possessed," Dean whispers.

"You were," says Sam. He takes a step forward but Dean backs away.

"Jesus, Sam," he breaths. "You couldn't tell the difference between me and a demon?"

"What? No." Things are spinning out of control; Sam can feel it, like the landscape is shifting away from him. "Dean, your eyes went black when I said Christo."

"That's it?" Dean says, voice hard and cold. "That's all it took, Sammy?"

"Don't go blaming him, boyo," Bobby interjects stepping forward. "I saw it too."

"Yeah, well I lived it." Dean snaps his head towards Bobby. "And I'm telling you, whatever you thought you saw wasn't real. I was never possessed!" The last word leaves Dean's mouth as an angry yell and the lights all over flicker and dim. Cujo snarls, hackles rising like rigid plates down the hellhounds spine.

Sam half expects to see black slide over Dean's eyes, but instead only the familiar green stares back at him, fury brightening the color until they practically glow.

If Dean notices the lights he doesn't say anything; instead he bends to swipe up his boots and jacket and heads for the door.

"Dean, wait!" Sam cries but Dean turns and throws up a hand.

"Don't come after me, Sammy, not unless you want to be missing a few teeth." Then Dean is gone, the door slamming shut behind him and the hellhound.

Sam and Bobby stares at the door in stunned silence.

"Well, that didn't end well," says Bobby finally.

All Sam can do is nod.


	3. Chapter 3

Fury keeps Dean walking. He ignores the ache settling into his muscles, the way his boots start chafing against his ankles, and the rain that sets in, soaking him through. All he can think, can feel, is betrayal. His own brother hadn't believed him.

It's especially hard to take as Dean had always given Sam every benefit of the doubt. He'd felt something was wrong with his brother that entire year with Ruby but he'd talked with Sam—okay yelled at Sam—but he hadn't tried to exorcise him.

It's only after he's been walking for a couple of hours that he realizes he isn't alone. The hellhound pads along behind him, black tongue dripping from his tongue, eyes only slightly red.

It's perks up when it sees Dean has noticed him and increases his pace so it can butt his head against Dean's hand. Dean half expects fear to slide in, but all he feels is a wary affection. One of these had ripped him to shreds and dragged him to hell, but he senses it wasn't this one. It wasn't Cujo.

_But, why is a hellhound following me?_ Dean thinks as he fondles the beast's ears.

"Christo," he whispers, just to see if he can say it. He feels nothing, but the hellhound whines, eyes flickering red.

"Sorry boy," says Dean. "I just…" his voice trails away and suddenly he's aware of how dark its gotten, how cold and sore he is. He glances around, eyes finally taking in his surroundings. They aren't good. Instead of walking towards Sioux Falls, Dean had walked into the woods bordering Bobby's junkyard.

Trees surround him in every direction; the narrow path he'd driven through the brush nearly invisible in the dim light. Rain splatters his head, and his shoulders hunch up, trying to protect his neck. It does no good. Rain slides under his collar and the cold spreads through him like quick fire.

"Well this sucks." Dean doesn't know what to do. He should go back, talk with Sam and Bobby, try and figure out what had happened. But the thought of going back there like a whipped dog didn't sit right. And there was still the matter of Cujo. The hellhound didn't seem dangerous, but Dean knew all too well the feel of those teeth ripping into him. He shudders at the memory and shoves it aside. Thinking like that isn't going to help him in the here and now.

Taking a breath, Dean crouches in front of the hound. This close it smells of sulfur and wet pine needles. Warm breath huffs out over his face as the hound regards him with serious eyes. Dean thinks he can practically sense what the hound is thinking, which is ridiculous because, one: it's a dog. And two…it's a damn dog!

"Alright," says Dean, voice loud in the quiet air. "Why are you following me?"

He's not sure what he was expecting, but the dog turning from him and trotting away isn't it. He's too startled to stand and instead watches as the hellhound picks up a fallen branch and trots back, and proceeds to write in the dirt.

And its write, not draw. An 'M' appears in the damp soil, followed by an 'a', 's', and 't'.

"Mast?" Dean asks. But the hellhound is still drawing. It adds two final letters and when Dean reads it, he sucks in a great lungful of damp air.

"No." He shakes his head in denial, knees rocking in preparation to stand. The hellhound growls and drops the stick, teeth latching around Dean's wrist instead. It shakes him, tugging and pulling, until Dean's hand is flat against the scratched out letters.

"Look, I'm not a demon, so I can't be your master, alright?"

The hellhound whines around Dean's wrist, red eyes fixed on his face. It seems certain and Dean doesn't have a clue how to prove he's not. Or even if doing so is a good idea. As long as the hellhound thinks Dean's his master, the thing won't attack him. Hell, it'll keep anything from attacking Dean as long as it's got this crazy idea in its head.

Admitting defeat (at least for now), Dean pats the hellhound with his free hand, gently extracting his wrist from between its teeth. "Alright, you win; I'm your master. So now what, huh? If you follow me back to Bobby's, they'll probably hog tie me back to that chair and try to exorcise me again."

The hellhound barks and snatches the stick back up, proceeding to write two more words.

**Find Eve. **

Time stutters for a moment and then Dean sucks in a harsh breath. It can't mean the Eve Dean's thinking. It can't.

"Why?" he breathes.

The hellhound makes an annoyed noise and goes back to writing. Scritch, scritch.

This time what the hellhound writes makes even less sense—at least to Dean.

**To Stop Her** stares back at Dean from the dirt. It's what Dean and Sam have been trying to do ever since they'd heard about her. But what would a hellhound want the mother of all monsters stopped for?

A sudden snarl from the hound jerks Dean's mind back into the here and now and he's up and turning, before the sound has time to fade. One man and two women stand in a staggered line, cutting Dean off from the way he'd come.

Black eyes regard him with cool contempt.

"Winchester," the woman in the middle says, her voice a dusky purr. "We've been searching for you."

"Yeah?" Dean says. "And why's that? Were you missing the beat downs we were giving you?" His words are a bluff, pure and simple. He has no weapons, nothing in his pockets but lint. He might be able to take down one demon, maybe two if he got lucky. But three? Three meant he was screwed.

Cujo didn't seem to agree. The hellhound slid between Dean and the demons with a low warning snarl. He rippled, growing larger before Dean's eyes until he's nearly to Dean's shoulder.

The demons falter, confusion sweeping through them. Whatever intel led them to Dean it hadn't included Cujo.

"What is this?" hisses the male demon. "How have you tethered a hellhound?"

"The same way I do everything; because I'm awesome." Dean smirks at them through the rain, recklessness surging through him like a red-hot flood.

Cujo throws his head back and howls and Dean laughs. He can feel Cujo's excitement as if Cujo was an extension of himself, the need to hunt, to feed, to destroy, ricocheting back and forth between them until Dean can't tell which of them the emotions originated from.

He barks something at Cujo, the words like gravel in his mouth. They hit the air, but Dean doesn't understand them as much as feels their meaning.

**_Kill. Kill the demons. _**

The demons never stand a chance. Cujo hits them like a wave of lethal force: all teeth and claws and death. But Cujo doesn't rip the bodies apart. His claws and teeth snap not at human flesh, but at the black smoke writhing underneath.

The demons' screams fly from human throats as they disintegrate into wisps of black that fade in the cool air. Its over in seconds. Cujo sniffs at the prone bodies a couple of times as if to check for remnants of demon, but both the hellhound and Dean know the demons are finished.

Dean's heart is roaring in his chest; and its not until he's kneeling besides the first woman, checking for a pulse, that he realizes what just happened. What he caused to happen.

The woman's ice cold, but so is Dean, her pulse thread and weak. Or maybe it's weak because Dean's shaking so hard he can barely press down to find it. He pulls away and turns to stare at Cujo. The hellhound starts to shrink down, but Dean finds more gravel-like words falling from his lips and the hellhound shimmers once, and then stops, body towering over the fallen hosts.

It's the work of moments to sling the three bodies over Cujo's back. Dean climbs up behind them and with a few more words, Cujo sets off. His pace is fast; much too fast for how smooth it is. And they are back at the junkyard in under a fifteen minutes.

It's full dark now and the spot lights ringing Bobby's house spring to life as they approach. The door flies open, Sam and Bobby tumbling out, shotguns at the ready, before Dean has even full dismounted.

They stare at each other through the rain and Dean feels the gulf between them, feels his brother's fear. It unnerves him and angers him at the same time.

"Either shoot or put 'em down and help me," he snarls before putting his back to them and pulling a limp body off Cujo's back. A softly spoken command to Cujo to stay still, and Dean is striding across the yard towards the house.

Sam and Bobby still have their guns up, but neither attempts to shoot as Dean pushes past them. The inside is baking hot after the freezing temperatures of outdoors and Dean takes the stairs two at a time, eager to get this one down and the other two in so he can revel in the toasty warmth.

To his surprise, Sam and Bobby are carrying the man in as Dean descends. Not a word is spoken as Dean hurries back out. This woman is smaller than the first. Her head lulls against Dean's chest as he carries her, her breath creating small white clouds as he crosses the yard. Cujo shimmers and shrinks back to dog-size and follows them inside, nudging the door closed with his nose.

It's not until the three humans are stripped of their wet outer layers and tucked in, that Sam, Bobby, and Dean gather in the kitchen.

Dean sinks gratefully into a chair and rests his aching head against the table. Every muscles screams in relief to be sitting, but he can't fall asleep, not yet. First he has to face the firing squad.

"Whatever you're going to say, just say it, alright?" he says, exhaustion causing the words to slur despite his best efforts.

"Who are those people, Dean?" It's Sam who speaks first, his voice a mix of worry and accusation.

Anger stirs in Dean's chest, but he's too tired to give it the tinder it requires, and it dies away quickly. "They were possessed by demons," he says. "But Cujo killed the demons so now they're just people. Just people…" His eyes close as the words slide out and Dean's tenuous hold on conscious fades away.

The last thing he thinks he hears is Bobby demanding, "Killed how?" and then there is nothing but blessed silence.


End file.
